


I Choose You

by CricketJames



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketJames/pseuds/CricketJames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their relationship has always been fluid. Ebbing and flowing like an eddy in a river, twisting first one direction and then the other before dissipating because of a disturbance and reforming again only to be stronger. They function in a constant state of question, neither really knowing where the other is or what the other is thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. This is my first foray into RPF. I’ve written fic in the past - granted not for the Outlander fandom (because until now I’ve been shit scared of Diana), and under a different name, but I’ve written it none the less. 
> 
> Writing about real people is daunting, but possibly less so than writing about beloved characters. 
> 
> Let me make it clear that this is a work of fiction. All the things you see here are purely figments of my overactive imagination come to be in print via the magic that is Microsoft Word and the internet. Do I believe what I’ve written is true? No. Do I operate under the delusion that everything I’ve written here will come true? Nah. Again, fiction. I understand the difference. This has been used as a writing exercise to take me out of my comfort zone, and to write a little nugget of entertainment that a group of people might enjoy. The people are real (well, most of them), but the situations I have placed them in are not. 
> 
> I welcome feedback, and will respond to it as often (and quickly) as I can. But, I do have a job and a life, so I can’t promise timely responses at all times. This piece is also posted on tumblr at cricketjames.tumblr.com
> 
> Now, without further adieu....

* * *

 

Their relationship has always been fluid. Ebbing and flowing like an eddy in a river, twisting first one direction and then the other before dissipating because of a disturbance and reforming again only to be stronger. They function in a constant state of question, neither really knowing where the other is or what the other is thinking.

 

Correction. He never knows what she’s thinking. He’s pretty sure he’s been very blatant about where he is and what he wants, short of coming right out and saying it – and if he did that he’s pretty sure it would stop his heart and make her throw up or punch him.

 

The past month has been an experiment in torture for him. So close, but still so far from what he actually wants and too much of a chicken to corner her and make her have a real conversation about it with him. He’s jokingly referred to her as the “ball and chain” and she comes up frequently in conversation as his “work wife”. He’s less jokingly referred to her as “mo ghraidh” and his sassenach in comments seen by no less than two hundred thousand people. The touches between the two of them have carried more weight, been a little more deliberate, and left a little more heat that lasts a little longer behind afterward.

 

He’s chalked it up to work. It’s a weak excuse, but it’s an excuse nonetheless. When they haven’t been shooting there have been fittings on top of fittings on top of fittings, press junkets and dinners, fight training, and somewhere in the midst of all of it, precious little sleep.

 

He hadn’t realized how much the material, and lack of sleep, had been taking a toll on her until she’d gone suspiciously radio silent for two days – two rare days off - and he hadn’t heard a peep. Usually, she’d check in on a day off to see how his day was, compare notes on the weirdness of sleeping until lunch, inquire about his workouts, more than a few text messages laden with innuendo along with her standard sarcasm and whip smart wit. His concern had mounted until he’d found himself shuffling his feet on the welcome mat outside her apartment, two bags of what was likely terrible take out in his hands, tracing his foot along the white script “hello” scrawled across the blue background of her welcome mat over and over again.

 

Once he’d finally mustered up the courage to knock and she’d cracked the door open to reveal red eyes, well-worn flannel pajama pants, and bare feet, he’d been lost all over again.

 

“Hey,” he said softly after a pause. She didn’t answer, just shuffled her bare feet back across the worn hardwood and opened the door wider, allowing him admittance without ever uttering a word.

 

* * *

 

 

Her living room looked like a small bomb had gone off on it. For someone who was usually so neat it was shocking to see even a small amount of clutter on the side table and a few dishes on the coffee table. He stood, awkwardly, not knowing if he should sit or beat a hasty retreat while she closed and bolted the front door. The fridge rattled open and he heard her soft footfalls behind him.

 

“Sorry about the mess,” she said, handing him a bottled water and bending to move some magazines and a well loved, broken-spined copy of “The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath” off the couch so they could both sit unhindered.

 

He cocked an eyebrow at the book as she put it back on the bookshelf, “Should I padlock the oven?”

 

She smiled that half smile that drives him secretly crazy, but it didn’t reach all the way up to her eyes. His brows drew together slightly in concern as he sat heavily on her couch. He plucked a smaller green book, held shut with an elastic band, from between the couch cushions and held it out to her. He knows she’s a journaler. He’s only seen it out a few times in the time he’s known her, but he knows better than to ask her what she writes inside. The times he’s seen it tucked into the side pocket of her chair on set have been during days of shooting intense scenes, so he assumes she uses it as an outlet for emotions she isn’t comfortable talking about.

 

She sits on the couch opposite him and folds her legs underneath her, bare feet tucked under her thighs and one hand twisting the edge of a well-worn tank top as she stares at the hem of her pants.

 

“Hey,” he says again, feeling lame that that’s the only thing he can come up with to say. He uncaps the water and drains half of it in an attempt to give him something to do with his hands. It also serves the purpose of keeping his mouth busy so no more ridiculous repeated greetings fall out of it again.

 

“Sorry for going incommunicado,” she says quietly, finally raising her eyes to look at him.

 

“It’s okay. You gotta do what you gotta do. When I didn’t hear from you about dinner tonight I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

“Shit. I forgot. I’m a horrible person,” she says fisting one hand in the hem of her tank top.

 

“No, you aren’t. But…you are okay…right?”

 

I’m okay,” she says with a small nod. It’s almost as if she’s assuring herself while trying to assure him. He nods, and wipes his hands on his jeans before moving to stand.

 

“I should go, I didn’t mean to barge in. I should let you be,” he starts at the same time she says “Do you ever have those times when you start comparing where your life is to where you thought it would be at this point?”

 

He blinks at her, owlishly, and drops the two inches back to the couch and drawing one leg up underneath him.

 

“In a bad way? Or a good way?” he asks, one arm running along the back of the couch.

 

“Neither,” she says, “Or both, I don’t know.” She shakes her head and pushes a strand of escaped hair back out of her eyes as she reaches for one of the bags of food.

 

“Sometimes I just think...never mind. It all sounds stupid and ungrateful now that I’m considering saying it out loud.”

 

"Never,” he says, leaning forward and using the hand running along the back of the couch to tap her shoulder. “You’re the most altruistic person I know, you’re allowed to have a selfish moment.”

 

She’s quiet again. It’s as if him speaking has scared the words back into whatever shadowy corner she’s inhabited for the past few days. It’s a little alarming to him that she’s being so reserved, so guarded. For someone as bubbly and buoyant it’s disconcerting that she seems to be worried about what he’s going to think if she says what she’s thinking.

 

“Hey, Cait,” he says, running a finger down the crest of her shoulder to rest his hand on her bare bicep with a light squeeze, “you know you can say anything to me, right?”

 

She smiles, and it creeps ever closer to reaching her eyes, “I know,” she whispers before huffing out a breath and squaring her shoulders a little, but not moving to move his hand.

 

“Let’s eat, huh?” she says with a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she rises to get utensils. “Chopsticks or forks?”

 

 “Unless you want chicken on your couch, forks.” He can almost hear her smile as the drawers in the kitchen bang shut, and hears the fridge open and close again.

 

He wishes she’d talk to him, really talk, but he knows better than to push. She’ll talk when she’s ready, and until then the least he can do is make sure she eats.


	2. Part II

She fell asleep somewhere around the end of the third, beginning of the fourth episode of Friends. The DVD had been turned on for background noise while they ate when conversation had lapsed into companionable silence. After her first admission she had kept whatever feelings that had been so close to the surface firmly in check and steered the conversation toward the more mundane. 

He should have left once he knew she was completely dead to the rest of the world. But her weight against his side and head pillowed on his shoulder kept him firmly rooted to the sofa cushion. So he’d stayed, the antics on the television far less interesting to him than watching her sleep. He felt like a peeping Tom, like someone from the police station down the block would bust in at any moment and haul him off for inappropriate leering – but he can’t help it.

He has the overwhelming desire to map the constellations of her freckles. To follow Perseus across the bridge of her nose and trace Andromeda curving along the edge of her cheekbone, stopping to notice and love each one in between with his fingertips and his lips. She is his true north, and she has no idea.

Before he can stop himself, he’s angled his body more toward her and reached out a finger to lightly trace across those freckles, smoothing along the space between her brows that has been furrowed more often than not lately before tracing the delicate arch down the bridge of her nose. The crease between her brows returns as she stirs toward waking and he feels like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar as her eyes drift open while his hand is still suspended in mid air in front of her face. 

She blinks, sleepily, and whispers “Hi.”

His hand drifts back down to rest on the arm of the couch as he searches for a response. Why have they both had such a hard time coming up with a reply to such a simple greeting tonight? It’s not like they were asking each other the final Jeopardy question or how to solve world hunger. But stuck he was and he blinked stupidly at her before stammering out, “You fell asleep.”

She let her eyes drift back shut and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, yawning a jaw-crackingly huge yawn.

“Sorry,” she croaks out, her nose pressed against the crease of his shoulder. As his arm had tired from being in one position across the back of the couch he had draped it, lightly, around her shoulders and takes the opportunity to rub her bicep lightly and give it a squeeze.

“It’s fine, you clearly needed rest.”

“You could have woken me up,” she says, pulling back and blinking at him, her exhaustion making her eyes even bigger than usual.

He shrugs half-heartedly, “You needed sleep.”

She’s quiet, back to staring at the hem of her shirt. He opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it.

“I should go brush my teeth. Chinese food and a nap don’t mix very well,” she says, running her tongue along her teeth.

“You do that,” he says with a chuckle, “I’ll clean up.”

Her kitchen is as orderly as one would expect it to be. Given the state of her living room, he doesn’t suppose she’s spent much time in the kitchen the past two days. As he unloads her tiny dishwasher he feels like he should be a little disconcerted that he knows exactly where she keeps the teaspoons and that the Tupperware, questionably, belongs in the bread bin over the sink. So many small things about the kitchen, from her ludicrous storage of plastic tubs, to the framed print reading “A meal without wine is called ‘breakfast’”, to the small pink and white porcelain cat on the windowsill scream Caitriona so loudly he can’t help but smile about it.

Eddie, finally choosing to make her presence known, wraps around his ankles as he deposits the takeout containers into the garbage bag.

“You’re a cute wee cheetie, but one day you’re going to make me break my neck,” he teases, reaching down to give the rather rotund feline a scratch behind the ears making the bell on her collar jingle.

He stands and turns, still idly talking to the cat and finds himself nearly nose to nose with Cait as she re-entered the room.

“Jesus. You scared me. I thought you left,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest and letting a nervous giggle leak out.

“Just having a chat with Eddie before I take out the trash,” he says, holding the plastic bag up as evidence.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says, reaching for the bag.

“I know I don’t,” he retorts with a smile as he pulls the bag back a couple inches, “but I’m gonna.”

Upon re-entering the apartment from dropping the trash down the chute, he finds her leaning against the kitchen counter, idly playing with Eddie’s ears as she lolls about on the countertop, clearly enjoying the attention. When she notices him watching her hands leave the cat and nervously play with her hair, which has fallen loose around her shoulders.

He wants to stop her as she pulls the elastic from her hair and sets about piling it all back up into a messy knot atop her head, but stops himself.

Telling her he likes her hair down would inevitably lead to embarrassing word vomit as he would likely be unable to stop himself from professing just how much he wants to run his hands through it and gather handfuls of it to hold her head in place as he devours her lips.

He decides that distracting himself is the best course of action and does so by washing his hands. Her hand soap smells like gardenias. Of course it does. Her hand towel is blue and purple quatrefoil. Of course it is.

He blinks. He’s got to get out of here.

“You should get some more sleep, it’s an early day tomorrow. I should have dropped the food and left.”

“No, I’m glad you came,” she says with a smile. She reaches out and snags his hand that is currently working on trying to worry a hole in her dishtowel and dovetails their fingers together. “You’re welcome to come hide under my rock with me any time.”

He gives a low whistle, “High praise.”

“What can I say, you’re a great pillow.”

“Ah, my true calling.”

The silence that follows is palpable. The weight of the undertone of his reply hanging about them, making its presence known and its audience uncomfortable. Why is it that every word out of their mouths is loaded with subtext, but neither can seem to muster up the courage to spit it out?

“I owe you dinner.”

“You don’t owe me anything, like I said, I barged in on your Caitriona-only party.”

She fixes him with a look that says, quite plainly, that she’s done arguing with him.

He sighs and squeezes her hand before replying, “In Edinburgh? Saturday?”

“I have plans in the afternoon, seeing some friends for a late lunch.”

“Late dinner then? Drinks? Somewhere far from the maddening crowd?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly agreeing to the last question. “I like all of those things. I’ll gather some options,” she says, staring at their linked hands.

“You know I’ll eat anything.”

She cracks a smile, “I know.”

He smiles back, giving her hand one last squeeze before pulling away to head toward the door. His hand is on the doorknob before her voice stops him.

“I’m so thankful for everything,” she says quietly, holding up a hand to stop him from responding when he turns to face her. He can tell the sincerity and depth of what she’s saying, as well as how tired and upset she really is as her accent broadens and her vowels liquefy slightly. “My life is incredible, and I don’t take anything in it for granted. I have the best job, an incredible family and friends, you…but sometimes I look around and realize I’m thirty five and while in my professional life I’m somewhere I never dared to imagine I’d be but at the same time my personal life is in shambles.”

He takes a step toward her and starts to speak, but she shakes her head to cut him off again, leaving her hand in the air as a signal for him to stay across the room. “Don’t. It is. Friends I’ve had since childhood are having their second and third babies, when I can’t get someone to stick around for long enough to even consider that option. I feel so stupid,” she says, pausing to run a hand quickly under both eyes, “to get so upset over something so trivial. I have so much more than a lot of people, but I’m missing that key component and it sometimes makes me wonder if it’s all worth it.”

She’s openly crying now. As disconcerting as her quietness earlier in the evening was, her tears wake the papa bear inside him and all he wants to do is to make her happy again. He ignores her closed off stance and crosses the room to pull her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her, running one hand up and down her back lightly as she locks her own hands behind his back.

“It’s not stupid, you’re not stupid.”

She sniffles into his shirt, cheek pressed flat to his breastbone. “Maybe, but I feel stupid.”

He pulls back a little so he can reach down and tilt her chin up to look her in the eye.

“You’re a lot of things, Caitriona, but stupid is not one of them. Everything you just said is a perfectly valid point. Don’t invalidate those feelings by being dismissive of them because you’re…emoting all over the place,” he finishes lamely.

She laughs a little, her chin still slightly quivering against his pointer and middle finger that is tilting it up toward him. 

She blinks slowly and he notices just how blue her eyes get when she’s upset. They’re electric in the dim light of the apartment and the tears have pooled slightly underneath them – caught just above her eyelids. He moves his hands up to her cheeks and wipes under both eyes with his thumbs before leaning down and pressing his lips to her forehead, just beneath her hairline.

He feels her breathing stutter ever so slightly as his hands slide down to rest on her shoulders. It takes every single solitary iota of his being to take a step back, breaking the hold they both have on each other.

“Do you need me to stay?” he asks, he has no problem sleeping on the couch if it would give her even a modicum of comfort knowing someone was around to talk to other than the cat.

She shakes her head, “I think wearing two wedding rings and wearing that bump on a daily basis has finally just worn me down. That combined with…nevermind.”

“Combined with what?” he asks.

She huffs out a breath before taking another deep one and staring at her bare feet on the hardwood. He can tell she’s uncomfortable, like she’s about to make some glaring confession to a priest and suddenly he’s not sure he wants to hear it – but he braces himself nonetheless.

“Do you want me to stay?” He asks bending his knees to look her directly in the eyes, after her contemplation of her toes forces the kitchen to lapse into yet another awkward silence.

She bites her lip, softly, considering him for a moment. Blue eyes searching blue eyes and he can tell she’s considering the possible ramifications of whatever her answer may be.

“We’ve got an early morning tomorrow,” she says after a beat, “I’ll be okay.”

He steps forward, giving her another hug and pressing another kiss to the top of her head, “I have no doubt.”

As he lets himself out of her building and turns to walk toward his own, he can’t help but analyze the fact that she hadn’t outright said no when he’d asked if she wanted him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely feedback on Part I! I love feedback, live for it, actually, so don’t be shy to drop a comment! If commenting here isn't your style, feel free to drop something in my askbox on tumblr (cricketjames[.]tumblr[.]com). Nastiness, however, will be tolerated with a sharp slap of sarcasm and the block button.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the atrociously long wait between parts. Life...happened.
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient in the delay Your commentary and encouragement was so nice and appreciated! Hopefully this part doesn’t disappoint. 
> 
> I love feedback, live for it, actually, so don’t be shy to leave a comment. Or, if that's not your style, leave a note in my ask box on Tumblr - cricketjames[.]tumblr[.]com

* * *

 

She’s late. It took longer than she expected to put the baby down and remove herself from the sweet solitude of suburban domesticity and even longer than that to get an Uber. She really should have just driven in, but she hadn’t and the baby had fallen asleep on her chest and she hadn’t wanted to disturb her.

So she’s late.

Before she can even ask the hostess to show her to the table, she catches movement in her peripheral vision and her eyes light on him, waving and smiling from a table near the rear of the restaurant.

“Miss?” the hostess asks, pulling a menu out from under the stand. Cait waves the gesture away, indicating she’s found her party and crosses the restaurant to him.

“Sorry,” she mutters as she slides into the chair, noting that he’s chosen the one where he can see the door and that there are two full wine glasses sitting in wait on the table.

He narrows his eyes across the table at her, “Did you change? You weren’t wearing that this morning.”

She starts, slightly, and of course he notices.

He smiles and pulls out his phone, turning it to face her after a moment. Staring back at her is a selfie she had snapped of herself and sweet baby Fiona napping on a chaise lounge in her best friend’s garden only hours before.

“Different shirt, no?”

She smiles, and glances down at the shirt she’s now wearing, “Fiona had very emphatic ideas about whether or not a denim shirt was too cowboy for Edinburgh and made those ideas known through a projectile vomit episode right before I left. Luckily, Aoife and I are generally the same size, or were at one point,” she says plucking at the simple black tunic she’s now wearing.

“Well, for the record, Fiona and I would disagree. But you look nice in anything,” he retorts, reaching for his glass and tilting it in a small toasting gesture.

She blushes. Why can’t she keep from blushing at the slightest compliment from him? It’s embarrassing, which only makes her blush more.

“It seems I’m doomed to never entirely make forgetting about dinner up to you. I offer to treat, and then I’m late to my own treat.”

He waves a hand at her, brushing the issue aside, “I haven’t been here long – and, since it’s on you, I took the liberty of ordering the most expensive red on the menu.”

Dinner is easy, the conversation flows easily between them with only small lapses to swallow a bite to eat or to drain a glass of water or wine. She pushes her chair back from the table when she’s finally stated - filled to bursting with lamb and a few stolen bites of his dessert. A sinful chocolate concoction ostentatiously called Montezuma’s Dark Chocolate Mousse, but she’s slipped and called it Montezuma’s Revenge twice now and they’ve dissolved into ridiculous laughter both times. The waitress hadn’t been amused.

She toys with her wine glass, running a finger around the lip and studying the quarter inch of liquid still in the glass.

“How’s your mom?”

“She’s good. We had lunch, she was mad I didn’t bring you.”

“Aw, your mom’s the cutest. Next time.”

He nods and smiles into his water glass as he sips at what’s left in his glass.

“What?” she asks, running a napkin around her mouth in the event he’s laughing because she’s got something on her face. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Nothing.”

“Heughan, if there’s something on my face and you’re not telling me I’ll kill you.”

He huffs out a laugh and sits his water glass down back to his plate, “There are two guys, and at least one girl, at the bar who have been checking you out for the past, oh, hour.”

“You’re lying,” she says, blushing furiously and resisting the urge to turn around to look, “they’re probably staring at you. From over there they can only see the back of my head.”

“Nah, it’s you. They watched you come back from the bathroom earlier. I think they’re currently deciding if they can take me.”

She purses her lips at him. Sometimes he’s completely ridiculous.

“They probably recognized you, and are trying to figure out why you’re sitting in the back of a restaurant with some goth-wannabe chick wearing a shirt that doesn’t exactly fit.”

He rolls his eyes, “Sure, that’s it.”

She has to bite back the urge to laugh at him. She can’t count the number of times he’s been recognized on the street while she’s slipped quietly into a store unnoticed. He really has no idea how many people recognize him or do a double take as he walks past. The waitress has absolutely recognized him, but aside from giving her an exasperated glance when she hadn’t known what she wanted to order and a look of barely checked disdain when she’d essentially, accidentally, called the dessert a particularly virulent case of the trots, she hadn’t given her the time of day.

“Trust me. It’ll be all over the Internet tomorrow. TV star Sam Heughan spotted having dinner with tall brunette. We’re, we’ll, you’re, probably in at least five Snapchat stories tonight alone.”

He chuckles, good naturedly, but she can see a spark of wariness in his eyes. His expression is a little more pinched than it had been a few minutes ago.

“More like stunning brunette tv star on a date with schlubby, unshaven Scot.”

She raises an eyebrow at him across the table as she tries not to choke on her wine at the word “date”.

“Is that what this is?” she asks, her face still mostly obscured by her wineglass and blushing furiously. He doesn’t reply, but raises an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth quirks upward in a hint of a smile.

“I don’t know, is it? You invited me.”

She’s silent, flushing madly as she scrambles for an answer. After a fortifying gulp of wine she opens her mouth to answer but he beats her to the punch.

“What time is your train?” he asked, trying to slide the check folder toward him on the table without her noticing.

“Ah, nice try, no,” she says, clicking her fingers at him and opening a palm for the folder. He sighs and rolls his eyes in exaggeration and thumps it lightly into her upturned palm. His fingers brush hers as he pulls his hand away and she has to physically restrain herself from starting from the spark.

They find themselves outside in the cool evening air a few minutes later.

“Feel like walking?” he asks, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. She wraps her jacket closer around her and nods.

“It’s a nice night, why not?”

It’s early, but most of the streets are fairly empty, a fact she comments on as they wander slowly through Old Town.

“Everyone is probably at the Military Tattoo,” he says, gesturing to the bright lights of the Esplanade that can be seen over the rooftops.

“I forgot that was tonight. What time did it start?”

He checks his watch, “The first performance ended an hour ago. The next one starts in…twelve minutes.”

“It would have been cool to see,” she says, running a hand through her hair before pulling her jacket tighter around her against the slight chill. “But the thought of being around that many people is not appealing right now.”

He nods, and wraps an arm around her shoulder after seeing her shiver, casually pulling her closer. For warmth, she says, her brain trying to rationalize while her heart is having palpitations.

“There’s a great coffee house over by New College, we can grab a cup and watch the crazies for a few minutes?” he asks, turning to look down at her.

She nods, “I could go for tea.”

He stops suddenly, catching her off guard and she stumbles as the weight of his arm on her shoulder suddenly stops her forward momentum.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier.”

She stares at him, wondering why this has come up now. It’s not like anything around them would have reminded him, they’re on an almost empty street, nothing but restaurants and pubs on one side and offices and townhomes on the other. Nothing remotely romantic about their current setting, but maybe that’s why he brings it up now. She decides to play stupid.

“What question?”

“Caitriona.”

When he uses her full name, she knows he’s serious.

She sighs and turns toward him, blinking up at him.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

She looks at her feet, shuffling them against the pavement. How can she answer that question without everything she’s been holding back coming spilling out? No guy she’s ever been with has reacted will to a sudden outpouring of emotions early in a relationship, why would he be different? Why did she just relate their relationship to a Relationship with a capital R? She’s quiet for a half a second too long and his arm drops from where it had still been resting against her shoulders.

“I get it.”

“Sam…”

“No, it’s fine. What time is your train tomorrow?”

She reaches out and tugs on the pocket of his jacket, making him look at her. She can tell he’s hurt, and she wants to reach out and smooth away the lines in his forehead with her thumbs and wrap herself around him until he forgets that she hesitated.

“I have a ticket for the 6:30.”

“Aberdeen or Inverness?”

“Aberdeen.”

He nods, shoving both hands in his pockets and looking down the street, squinting into the distance.

“Finnie is giving me a lift back in about an hour if you want a ride. It’d be better than taking the train that early. Are you in tomorrow?”

She nods again, “Pick-up at half six in the evening.”

“Half five,” he says, answering her unspoken question. “It would be nicer to sleep in your own bed tonight, no?”

“I’ll have to go get my bag,” she says, running a hand through her hair again before shoving them both in her jacket pockets. That’s a habit she’s going to have to break.

“I’m sure we can stop for it,” he says. “Lets get that tea, huh?”

***

Several hours later they’re pulling up in front of her apartment building. She’d fallen asleep on his shoulder fifteen minutes after they’d left, one of her hands fisted in his sweatshirt in her sleep. He hadn’t had the heart to move her, lest he wake her. He needed time to think, not that any thinking done in her vicinity would be easy.

Finnie curbed the car in front of her apartment building, “Walking her up?”

He nodded, “I’ll walk from here, you get home. You’ve got an earlier morning than us.”

“Hey,” he whispers, squeezing her shoulder softly, “You’re home.”

She blinks, eyes wide looking that a child woken suddenly from a nap but is pretending not to be still half asleep looks.

“Lets get you upstairs,” he says, chucking her under the chin softly.

“I can walk myself, I’m a big girl,” she says, fumbling to unfasten her seatbelt.

He gives her a look that plainly states he isn’t going to argue with her, and lets himself out of the car to walk around and open the door for her.

“Night, mate,” Finnie calls as he shuts the door behind her. They both raise a hand in goodbye before turning to enter her building.

“Lift still broken?” he asks, holding the door as she manhandles a duffle bag that she wont let him carry through it.

“Yes,” she says with a groan, dropping her head forward and letting the back hit the ground with a thump. He reaches over and unclenches her hand from around the table before taking it from her and turning for the stairs. He’s surprised when her hand slips into his free hand, fingers closing warmly around his own. Her door arrives far more quickly than either of them anticipated or wanted.

Outside her door she doesn’t drop his hand, but stares at it instead as she traces her thumb back and forth across the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, “about earlier. I should have answered you.”

He shakes his head, squeezing her hand and letting her bag drop softly to the ground by her door, “I shouldn’t have pushed. I just thought…”

She looks up at him, questions in her eyes but her expression urging him to continue.

“I just thought we both might be in the same place. Or thinking the same thing, maybe.”

She lets out a small sigh, her eyes drifting back down to the floor.

“But, it’s obvious we’re not, and that’s okay.” He says, giving her hand a squeeze again before tugging on her hand and wrapping her in a brief hug. Her eyes close and he feels her melt against him.

They sway slowly on her doorstep, dancing to non-existent music. He feels her hands grasp the pockets of his sweatshirt, holding them tightly in her fists. She says something into his chest, voice muffled by his clothes. He pulls back a fraction of an inch so he can see her face. Her eyes don’t lift from his solar plexus.

“Huh?”

She takes a fortifying breath and squares her shoulders before repeating herself.

“We are.”

She finally blinks and looks up at him, tired eyes searching his face for a reaction.

***

His hands are everywhere. For a split second she’s concerned he’s procured an extra pair, and then one is fisted back into her hair, anchoring her mouth to his and the other is sliding around to span her ribcage just under her breast and she can’t form a coherent thought anymore. He’s turned them so she’s pressed gently against the door, their mouths locked in a ceaseless back and forth – nipping and sipping at each other. She sighs into his mouth, leaning more heavily against the door and dropping one of her hands to his hip to pull him closer. His nose brushes her cheek as he tilts his head to pull back. His forehead comes to rest against hers and they breathe together for a moment, chests heaving, his hand in her hair and the other low on her hip stroking in a maddening circle.

“I should go,” he breathes, the hand in her hair loosening its hold on to cup the back of her neck. She nods against his forehead, almost involuntarily.

“Unless you want to come in?”

He smiles and chuckles quietly, this close to her she can feel it course through his entire body which cause her to shiver.

“Not tonight.”

She puts a hand against his chest and pushes back slightly to look him in the eye.

***

She looks hurt, he wants to wrap her back up in his arms and kiss her until that look goes away. He knows he needs to explain himself, and runs both of his hands down her arms to take her hands in his. It’s now or never, right?

 

“If I’m going to be with you I want to be WITH you. I want to go to bed with you at night after watching mindless tv under blankets on the couch. I want to be able to complain about how fucking cold your hands and feet are in the middle of the night when you decide that my armpits of backs of my knees are where they belong. I want to count your freckles, one at a time, and memorize the colors your eyes turn. I don’t want to be a passing ship, or someone you’re with just because it’s convenient. If that’s not something you can do, I need to know now because I can’t let myself fall in love with you more than I already have if you can’t.”

She opens her mouth to answer and he silences her with a finger on her lips.

“I don’t want an answer now. Take time. Think about it. I’ve had my time to consider the options, it’s only fair you get yours.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead and steps back, putting his hands in his pockets and heading for the stairs.

“Goodnight, Caitriona.”

He’s halfway down the steps before he hears her quiet reply.


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please take heed of the ratings change. The end of this chapter is DECIDEDLY NC-17. If that is not your cup of tea, stop reading at the double horizontal lines. I promise I wont be offended. 
> 
> This chapter is almost 4000 words longer than the other parts combined - Happy Thanksgiving and Happy Reading!

_Sunday Morning – 8:53am_

 

“Why?” she asks, hands firmly planted on her hips, barricading the way into his apartment building. She’d been sitting on the front steps for the past half hour waiting for him to come back from the gym. Her ass hurt, her heart hurt and her head was beginning to hurt from overthinking and overindulgence – any combination of which was not a winner by any stretch of the imagination.

 

“Why what?”

 

If she hadn’t been so irritated, she probably would have found his confusion funny, possibly even cute, but she was past the point of finding him adorable.

 

“You know what? Nevermind,” she scoffs, using one hand to push her hair out of her eyes and the other to snatch her purse off the step. She tries to brush past him, but his hand closes on her bicep.

 

“You don’t get to walk away like that, not when you look like –“

 

“I don’t get to walk away? _I_ don’t get to walk away? That’s rich,” she retorts with a mirthless laugh, and snatching her arm out of his grip.

 

“Can we talk inside? While I enjoy the idea of an easy escape route, I’d rather not have the entirety of a Glasgow city block overhear while you ream me out for whatever it is I’ve done.” He asks, dropping his hands to his sides in defeat. She glares at him. Realistically, she knows she shouldn’t be this furious, but she couldn’t help it.

 

“Lead on, MacDuff,” she says, gesturing with one hand. He quirks an eyebrow at the reference, but unlocks the building entrance anyway, glancing back over his shoulder as he does so.

 

The stairs to his apartment had never felt so unending. Her anger is beginning to dissipate with each step, but she is unsure if that is from the energy exertion required to climb four flights or the fact that she’s eye-level with his ass the entire time.

 

When he finally tosses his keys into the dish on his counter and shuts the door behind her she turns to look at him across the kitchen, arms crossed both in anger and in a vain effort to control her temper.

 

“Why?” she asks again, voice level and eyes locked on his.

 

He sighs, and she could tell he still had no clue what she was talking about. Or maybe he did. He was a damn good actor after all. His hands run through his hair, causing a few pieces to slick out haphazardly. She has to hold her arms tighter across her body to keep herself from crossing the room to fix it.

 

“Can you give me a hint?”

 

The silence sits heavy between the two of them. She notes, without mirth, that they’ve been very prone to having serious conversations in kitchens lately – though she wishes they were in hers so she could boot him out and be done with it. However, the rational part of her brain reminds her that she’s the one who initiated this particular têtê-a-têtê so she might as well get it out there.

 

“You left,” she finally spits out, her eyes straying to the stack of folded clothes on his kitchen table. Who folds clothes in the kitchen?

 

When she musters the courage to finally look at him again he looks as downtrodden as she feels.

 

She watches him take a deep breath and a hard swallow, “You’re right. I did,” he pauses, jaw moving as he clearly tries to figure out how to say whatever is on his mind, “and I would do it again.”

 

She opens her mouth to let loose a vicious tirade of aspersions on his character but the fight has gone out of her and she feels her shoulders deflate like a punctured balloon.

 

“You had had the worst day. You drank a lot at the party. It didn’t feel...right,” he said finally, shoving his hands deep in the pocket of his sweatshirt. “I did what a normal, decent, guy would do and now I’m being crucified for it.”

 

“So you left,” she says numbly, her back against his cabinetry – one door pull digging painfully between her shoulder blades, which only adds to her misery. “With her.”

 

She looks up in time to see his reaction, eyes bulging and one hand coming out of his pocket to fist through his hair before slamming it down on the counter.

 

“No, Caitriona, I didn’t leave with anyone. I went home by _myself_. You _know_ that. Christ I can’t believe you think I would say what I said to you no more than three days ago, follow you home from a bar to make sure you were okay, and then turn around and go home with some random girl who chose to hit on me in the bar.”

 

She shrugs, “You can do whatever you want to do. I’m in no place to stop you.”

 

“Clearly you are,” he says, hanging his head to look down at his hand, “Or we wouldn’t be having this out right now.”

 

“No. I’m not.”

 

“Only because you haven’t decided to be. I left the proverbial ball in your fucking court, Catiriona. You told ME you needed time to think. Space. So I gave it to you as much as I could with work and all and now you’re mad because I didn’t come stay with you last night when you were drunk off your ass to the point of not being able to walk in your heels anymore? I’ve seen you wasted, obliterated even, but never like you were last night. I don’t see how I’m the bad guy here.”

 

She sniffles, using the back of her hand to wipe away a traitorous tear that has wormed its way down her cheek. He’s right. He’s right and she hates that he’s right. He’s not the bad guy.

 

* * *

 

**_Saturday Night, Ten Hours Earlier..._ **

 

 

The door to his trailer swung open with a resounding thunk against the wall behind it, causing everyone to jump and turn to stare at the intruder.

 

“I fucking hate people,” she proclaimed, red in the face while slamming the door back shut behind her and crossing her arms over her chest.

 

“Good to see you too, Balfe.”

 

“Uh, present company excluded…I hope?”

 

She blinked, slightly startled at the fact that instead of just finding him in his trailer, she had stumbled upon what looked like the ragtag remnants of a notes session with one crucial person missing. Duncan blinked at her from the small couch where he had kicked up sock clad feet and Maril, ever attentive Maril, had hopped up from her position at the small table with her notepad to cross the short distance to her but stopped short.  

 

Caitriona ran her fingers through her hair, before violently tugging the hair band off her wrist and pulling it into some semblance of a messy bun. She stared pointedly at Duncan, who moved his feet off the cushion next to him and shoved them back in his boots.

 

“I’m gonna go. We’re good?” he asked, straightening clothes as he gathered up his bag.

 

“Yeah, we’re good,” Maril replied, giving him a wave of her hand in dismissal. Duncan crossed the small room and reached for the door handle only to be surprised as it swung in toward him again. He stopped it with a hand just before it crashed into his face.

 

“Jesus Christ, you people need to learn how to enter a room without giving everyone inside a heart attack.”

 

She looked up and the clenching feeling in her chest eased slightly at the sight of Sam.

 

“What happened? I saw you get out of the car and storm over here. I called your name but you seemed too heated to hear me,” he said, moving to squat in front of where she now sat on the couch.

 

“Sorry,” she said, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees and scrub her face with her hands.

           

“Maura’s outside looking like if she could reach through the phone and strangle whomever she’s talking to, she would. I take it the interview didn’t go so well?”

 

Maril raised an eyebrow, describing the tiny, blonde assistant press representative for the show as being ready to strangle someone was cause for alarm. “Interview?”

 

Cait groaned into her hands and pushed flyaway hairs back out of her face before looking up at the both of them. Sam’s sat himself completely on the floor opposite the couch, back against the chair Duncan had only recently vacated.

 

“We had an interview scheduled today, but I had to do reshoots – as you well know – and we leave tomorrow night so we couldn’t reschedule. They said they could just talk to her today and do me by phone tomorrow.”

 

“Who was it?”

 

“Entertainment...something. Not Weekly,” he finishes quickly.

 

“What happened?” she turns her focus back to Cait and settles herself back down on a chair. He settles himself next to her on the couch, one arm draped loosely around her shoulders.

 

She huffs out a breath and taps her hands on her knees before answering.

 

“You know how every time we go to one of these things it’s always the same? They ask the same questions, rephrased over and over again in the same ways. ‘What was it like to do love scenes?’, ‘Who would you choose, Jamie or Frank?’, ‘What’s it like to play such a strong woman character?’. Most of the time I don’t care and I’ll answer them the same way I always do. But this guy was really insistent on the filming sex scenes angle. He seemed to have latched onto my comment this summer about not wearing the modesty patch occasionally and fucking ran with it. I tried to change the subject twice and he just kept coming back to it. I told him if we didn’t talk about something else the interview was over. He decided the best course of action was to ask me about what it was ‘like growing up in Ireland during the Troubles’. I just stared at him. I couldn’t believe the balls this guy had. I told him I was there to discuss the show, not my personal life and if he didn’t have any other questions in that area I was leaving. He just grunted and ruffled through his pages of notes, so I walked out.”

 

Sam and Maril stared at her. It wasn’t unheard of for people to walk out of interviews with belligerent journalists, but neither of them would have pegged her, sweet and always pleasant Caitriona, as the type.

 

Maril opened her mouth to ask a question but was interrupted by a soft knock on the trailer door.

 

“Hey, Maril, can you...” Maura asks, blonde curls bobbing as she gestures to the phone in her hand.

 

“I’ll take care of it,” Maril says with a dismissive wave of her hand as she moved to leave. She turns to face Caitriona as she grabs her bag. “You, don’t worry about it. An asshole is an asshole, and if sweet Maura is done with his shit he’s toast,” she smiles as both Sam and Caitriona chuckle. “See you both at the party?”

 

They both nod as she grabs her bag and leaves. Caitriona leans back against the back of the couch and scrubs her face with her hands.

 

“So. How was your day?” she asks through her fingers before rocking her head to the side to peek at him through them.

 

“Much better than yours, clearly.”

 

“It wouldn’t take much.”

 

He laughs and moves to stand, “I need to change and stop in makeup,” he says, hooking a thumb back over his shoulder. “You stay. Nap. Drink. Do something. The party doesn’t start for another hour or so.”

 

She’d almost forgotten about the party until Maril had mentioned it. A stiff drink and a few hours of mindless conversation is exactly what she needs after today.

 

* * *

 

 

The bar is loud, raucous even, but that’s to be expected when you combine a mostly Scots cast with an almost entirely Scots crew in one bar where the drinks are flowing on the show’s dime. They are formally bidding adieu to their French castmates, but several familiar faces have cropped up as well in the proceedings.

 

She’s enveloped herself into a round corner booth, buffeted on both sides by the boys who are swapping bawdy stories and continually buy rounds of pints and shots. She’s certain they’ll all be vomiting messes in the morning, herself included, but she’s enjoying herself so she doesn’t care all that much.

 

“Come on,” someone to her right says, tugging at her arm, she turns her head to determine who’s talking to her and it takes a second for the room to catch up to her eyes. It’s Callum the makeup assistant, and he’s got a hand under her arm and is tugging her to the edge of the booth. “Karaoke time.”

 

“There’s not even a karaoke machine!” she laments, resisting his pull.

 

“There’s a stereo system, isn’t there?”

 

“No. No way. Too drunk. You do it,” She replies, snagging his pint and tipping it to her lips, “I’ll keep this safe for you.”

 

He winks at her, and stumbles sideways as he goes on a short quest for an erstwhile karaoke companion, staggering to and fro and sending other patrons stumbling in his wake.

 

“This’ll be good,” a female voice pipes in her ear. Laura has rejoined the table upon the vacation of several of the boys and is nursing a gigantic drink.

 

“What’s that?” she asks, tipping her head at the drink.

 

“No idea. It’s good though,” she retorts, tipping it toward her in invitation.

 

“I’m good,” Caitriona replies, tilting back the glass and draining the remnants of Callum’s pint.

 

“Hey,” Laura asks, poking her in the side with a finger and gesturing to the bar, “Who’s that with Sam?”

 

Caitriona looks up, and frowns, eyebrows furrowing together as she takes in the scene in front of her. Sam, who until a half hour ago, at least she thinks it was a half hour ago, had been sitting next to her, arm draped loosely around her shoulders, is leaning against the bar having a somewhat animated conversation with a woman she’s never seen before. Whatever the woman is saying must be hilarious, because he’s leaning in very close to her and laughing.

 

“I have no idea,” she says, fighting to break her eyes away from them and finds herself staring into the now empty pint glass.

 

Laura is talking, but she’s not listening. She’s trying to find anything in the bar to rest her eyes on that will keep her from looking back at the two of the, but nothing holds her attention for more than a minute. She feels like she’s got herself back together when she chances a glance and sees the woman reach out and squeeze his bicep with one hand and she suddenly goes cold.

 

“I think...I think I’m going to go,” she mumbles, blindly checking around her for her purse, tears threatening to spill over but she refuses to cry in front of anyone.

 

“Are you sure?” Laura asks, reaching out and resting her hand on her arm, concerned.

 

“Yeah. It’s been a day, and I still have to pack,” she stammers, finally. She busses a kiss against the other woman’s cheek and stands to go. She flicks her eyes toward the bar and he’s noticed her stand. Her eyes lock on his and somehow through the din of the bar, and Callum’s failed attempts to sing over the stereo’s “Fight Song”, she can hear him speaking to the woman, making excuses of why he has to leave.

 

She turns quickly on her heel and makes for the exit.

 

It’s cold outside of the bar, the small grassy patch of a patio between the door and the street are difficult to maneuver in heels, so she remains on the paved patch by the door. She’s got her phone out and is making a reservation for an Uber when she feels his hand on her arm.

 

“Don’t.”

 

He pulls his hand back as if she had shocked him.

 

“Cait...”

 

“I said don’t.”

 

“Okay.”

 

She doesn’t turn to face him, but she knows he’s making no move to leave. She can feel his presence, hovering. They’re quiet for a few minutes, her car is four minutes away when he speaks again.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

His hand is on her arm and puts just enough pressure to turn her to face him. She refuses to raise her eyes to meet his, staring doggedly at her phone.

 

“I’m taking you home.”

 

“I already called a car.”

 

“Good, then I don’t have to.” his grip on her arm tightens as he steers her toward the walkway to the street.

 

She shrugs, figuring making one driver suffer the potential ill effects of having a drunk in the backseat was better than foisting the scenario upon two potential unwitting victims. She stumbled slightly on the loose gravel near the end of the walkway; one heel catching in an odd pocket while whiskey and momentum carried her forward. His arm was the first thing she’d grabbed in an effort to save herself from face planting, fingers wrapping around his bicep like a vice. In the same moment, he had attempted to snag her around the waist, the result being her stumble carrying her smack into his chest instead of the pavement looming ahead.  She steadied herself, one hand pressed to his lapel and the other still gripping his arm. His fingers tightened on her waist, securing her in place while she attempted to regain balance. When both heels were firmly planted on the ground again, and the horizon had tilted back to, well, horizontal, she expected him to move away. But he didn’t. She looked up at him, quizzically. Her brain befuddled by the sensation of his hands on her waist and the whiskey coursing through her system.

 

“Lets get you home, huh?” he says quickly, running a thumb down her jawline as the car pulls up to the curb. She softens and nods, letting him open the door for her before running a hand down her arm to catch her fingers.

 

A female voice calls his name from the door to the bar and he turns, fingers still laced in hers. She doesn’t chance a glance out the window to see who it is, but pulls her fingers free of his.

 

“I’ll be fine,” she says, one hand pushing his arm out of the way so she can close the door.

 

“What?” he asks, brushing off her hand and putting his body in between the door and the car.

 

“I said I’ll be fine,” she repeats firmly, trying to bodily shove him back out of the car. “I don’t need a baby sitter, dammit,” she almost growls.

 

He’s shocked by the malice in her voice and takes a step back, which allows her to shut the car door and hit the lock button.

 

He knocks on the window, but she ignores him, giving the driver directions home. As the car pulls away from the curb she chances a glance through the back window and sees the girl, standing next to him on the curb, talking a mile a minute. He’s not listening to her, he’s not even looking at her. He’s caught her eyes like he knew she was going to look. The driver stops at the traffic signal and she watches as he blinks, and finally acknowledges the girl beside him as he pulls out his phone.

 

She knows, even in her drunken state, he’s calling for a car and will beat her to her apartment.  They’ll end up having it out on the front steps and she wishes for one moment he wasn’t such a good guy. This would make this entire business a hell of a lot easier.

 

* * *

 

 

It had taken him a hell of a lot longer to get an Uber than he expected. Caitriona had gotten seemingly the only car in the area and he was going to have to wait twenty minutes for a pickup – likely her car making a return trip. He swears under his breath and realizes the girl is still talking to him.

 

He glances up and gives her a small smile and waits for her to take a breath so he can politely excuse himself.

 

“So that’s how we wound up here, pretty funny huh?” she says with a smile. She’s a perfectly pleasant girl, but he has no interest. He smiles at her again and nods.

 

“It was nice to meet you...”

 

“Sofia,” she supplies after a pause, brows furrowing.

 

“Sofia,” he says with a smile, “My...friend...that just left is quite drunk and quite upset. I need to make sure she gets home okay.”

 

“She’s in an Uber, isn’t she? I’m sure she’ll be fine!” the effervescent Sofia replies, flipping her long hair behind her shoulder and putting a hand on his arm. He pulls away, gently, as to not offend the girl.

 

“I really need to go,” he says, gesturing to his phone, “I’ll walk you back inside.”

 

She frowns, but consents to follow him back inside.

 

“Heyyy! There you are!” Maril is toasting him from her position at the bar with Duncan and a few other crew members. She frowns at the girl next to him and glances back to meet his pointed look that so clearly read “don’t ask”.

 

“Where’s Cait disappeared to?”

 

“She went home,” he answers, scooping his coat off the back of the booth he had been sitting in earlier. Had it really been less than an hour since all hell had seemingly broken loose? He’d love to rewind about forty-five minutes to the two of them, talking quietly with his arm around her shoulders and circumvent this whole situation from happening. Why had he gotten up to pee? If he’d just held it the girl never would have crossed his path.

 

“Alone? She was pretty blasted...” Duncan pipes up from behind his glass.

 

“She’s in an Uber. She’s...” he starts and trails off, unsure of how to finish the question.

 

“Do you need a ride?” Maril asks, reaching for her phone.

 

“Nah. Uber will be here in a few minutes.”

 

“Good,” she says with a nod before standing to hug him goodbye. “Whatever happened, just apologize.” she whispers in his ear before bussing his cheek with a quick kiss. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

“We’re both on the half two flight,” he says, shrugging into his jacket.

 

“If you’re at the hotel and settled in time, we’re meeting for dinner at six. Otherwise, we’ll catch you bright and early Monday.”

 

He agrees and makes his exit when his phone alerts him that his driver is outside, he doesn’t miss the daggers being shot at him by the infamous Sofia and her companions but he can’t worry too much about them. He’s got bigger fish to fry.

 

* * *

She knows before she opens the door that the only person who could possibly be hammering on her door at nearly two in the morning is him. She’s half infuriated that he followed her home after he told her not to, and half relieved that he didn’t go home with that girl.

 

“Caitriona, open the door,” he calls through the locked door.

 

She takes her time with the locks, idling between releasing each one and finally throwing the bolt on the dead bolt. She eases the door open and rests a shoulder against the doorjamb.

 

“What?”  


He huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes, “You storm out of a bar, drunkenly get in a car that you all but bodily shove me out of it and then ask me ‘what’ when I show up to check on you?”

 

“I told you I was fine,” she says, moving to shut the door in his face. He wedges himself between the door and the jamb and it ricochets off his shoulder. He grimaces. Good. She’s glad it hurt.

 

“But you’re not. Can you at least tell me what I did so I can fix it?”

 

She purses her lips and stares at him. Her vision has righted itself, mostly. She’s found that barely suppressed rage has the annoying tendency to create a false sense of sobriety.

 

“Did you at least get her name?” it’s a low blow – she knows it, and likely wouldn’t have said it had she not been pretty close to three sheets to the wind, but she says it anyway.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Caitriona,” he’s mad now. She can see it in his eyes and she’s almost happy to see it. Mr. Never-Loses-His-Cool is going to blow his top. “She was the best friend of a girl on the costume crew. She cornered me when I went to the bathroom. I know her name and that she’s visiting from Liverpool and that’s IT. That’s all I know – it’s more than I care to know!”

 

“You looked like you cared a little,” she huffs. She’s losing this argument and she knows it.

 

“Because I was being nice and talking to her? I’m not an animal, Caitriona. If someone talks to me, I’m going to respond. I’m not going to ignore someone who clearly works, or I thought worked, on the same fucking show we do. It’s called being polite.”

 

She sniffs, and rubs her eyes with both hands. She’s now not only drunk and emotionally drained, she’s exhausted.

 

He softens seeing her rub her eyes like a child, and she glares at him, but the heat behind her eyes is gone.

 

“Look, let’s talk in the morning? You’re tired, we’re both a little too drunk to have this conversation right now.”

 

She nods and drops her chin to her chest.

 

“Hey,” he says, crossing to grasp her shoulders lightly and kneed the tense muscles he finds there. She moves closer to him on instinct and he wraps his arms around her, resting his chin on the crown of her head.

 

They stand there, not speaking for a solid minute before she pulls back to look up at him. She narrows her eyes, thoughtfully, which he misreads as anger and takes a step back. She reaches out and snags his coat sleeve and pulls him back. She rises on her toes and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. He starts, and she pulls back an inch to look him square in the face before pressing her lips to his, more firmly and full on this time.

 

She feels him start to respond, one hand goes to her hip and the other to her bicep and then he’s pulling away.

 

“Cait...”

 

“Stay,” she says quietly. His brow furrows and she’s not sure he heard her so she repeats herself, louder this time before moving to kiss him again. He evades her, taking a step back.

 

Her hands drop to her sides and they stare at each other across the foot of space between them.

 

She opens her mouth to say it again and moves to step closer to him, sure he’s either gone deaf or the alcohol has affected his hearing.

 

“No,” he says quietly, putting out a hand to stop her. She stops, frozen in place. Her jaw drops open and she shuts it with a snap before turning away from him, furious.

 

“I should go,” he says, backing toward the door.

 

“Yes. You should.”

 

* * *

**_Sunday Morning – 9:30am_ **

 

“You were so far gone I didn’t think you knew what you were doing or saying,” he says quietly, “I couldn’t stay and hold you to your word when I wasn’t even sure you’d remember it in the morning.”

 

She’s quiet, one sneaker clad toe tracing the tile of his kitchen floor.

 

“I meant it,” she says finally raising her eyes to look at him. He lets out an audible breath and leans back against the counter again.

 

“You say that now...”

 

“Sam. I meant it. But, you’re right. I didn’t...I wasn’t...I was drunk,” she finishes lamely.

 

“It’s okay you don’t have to...”

 

“Stop,” she says, cutting him off and crossing the room to stand directly in front of him, “I meant it.”

 

This time when she lifts up on the balls of her feet to kiss him he doesn’t step away.

 

* * *

 

**_Prague – 9:30pm, Sunday evening_ **

 

Thanks to a delayed flight, they had missed the planned dinner by minutes. She had been unpacking in her hotel room when her phone had buzzed on the nightstand.

 

“ _Feeling French?”_

_“What the hell does that mean?”_

_“I have it on good authority that there is an incredible French restaurant within walking distance. Have dinner with me?”_

_“Shouldn’t we be eating Czech?”_

_“Eh. We have a week. Lets eat something we can pronounce. Or at least one of us can.”_

_“Are you asking me on a date?”_

_“Yes.”_

His last message had floored her a little. She’d had to sit down on the mattress amidst her myriad of toiletries to think of a response. A date. A real date, no hidden agendas or is-this-or-isn’t-it bullshit they’d been skirting around for months.

 

_“Pick me up in an hour?”_

He’d sent back a string of emojis that she hadn’t been able to decipher, but it had ended with a thumbs up, so she’d taken it to be positive.

Which is how she found herself strolling down a streetlamp lit street in Prague, one of the most romantic cities in the world, hand in hand with him. It felt so good, so right, but she couldn’t help but be nervous.

 

“Would you stop glancing over your shoulder like someone is going to jump out at us?” he asks, running his thumb over the back of her hand. “This isn’t the first time I’ve held your hand in public, you know.”

 

She smiles and blushes, ducking her eyes, “Yeah, I know.” Her subtext of, “but it’s the first time it really means something” is almost palpable.

 

He tugs at her hand to stop her and turn her toward him. She can sense it before he even makes his move and tips her chin up, eyes fluttering closed. He laughs, and she cracks an eye open, feeling ridiculous.

 

“You’re adorable, you know that?” he asks, busking her chin with two fingers before splaying his hand along her jaw and neck and stepping until there’s no space between them.

 

When he meets her lips it’s tentative. Nothing like the heated kiss they’d shared in her hallway just days – oh God had it only been days? – earlier. His hands are still, one cupping her face and the other resting against her hip, and his lips are soft, barely moving against her own. She pulls back, smoothing her hands down the front of his jacket and toys with a button. It’s now or never, she supposes.

 

“I’ve been thinking, about us, since that night in Edinburgh,” she blurts, taking his hand and playing with his fingers between them. He starts at her admission, but recovers quickly.

 

“Me too,” he replies, giving her fingers a squeeze.

 

She smiles at him, of course he has. She takes a deep breath before continuing. “It’s been a long time since I was really WITH someone, and if I’m being honest I’m not very good at it.”

 

“Hey…” he starts but she shakes her head cutting him off. She needs to get this out.

 

“I’m not.  I spent an entire day on the phone with my sister, and that entire day with Aoife, talking about it. Getting it all out there and trying to figure out where I sat. Neither of them really gave me opinions, they just…let me talk. They’re a little bit better listeners than the cat,” she smiles faintly and he chuckles.

 

“I’m going to tell her you said that,” he says, playing with their linked fingers.

 

“This trip came at a good time,” she says, huffing out a breath. “Something about being out of Glasgow…helps.”

 

The corners of his mouth turn down slightly, “What do you mean.”

 

She huffs out a breath and internally berates herself. She’s not explaining this well, something about putting it into words is giving her a mental block.

 

“I feel like no matter where we are, unless we’re at my place or yours, we’re very…visible,” he nods in agreement so she continues. “I’ve been fighting this for so long, trying to suppress anything I felt for you because I felt like there was so much pressure. I don’t feel like we could walk down the street together, even if there’s feet of space between us, and not have someone mention it and it be all over the internet – which is stupid because it’s Glasgow not L.A.”

 

“It’s not stupid,” he says, leaning back against the railing and pulling her a step closer.

 

“Being here makes me feel…anonymous. None of these people around us give two single fucks who we are,” he grins at her profanity and she continues, “they don’t care who we are or what we’re doing or if we’re doing it together. Hell, over half of them don’t speak English. It feels like the pressure is…off. Like I can relax and be myself and be myself WITH you, instead of being Caitriona with Sam.”

 

“I get it.”

 

She looks at him, searching his eyes. She’s not sure that he really does get it, but he at least understands a little.

 

“We have a week here, granted we’re going to be working and after tomorrow when people figure out where we’re filming privacy will be a luxury, but we have a week to just…figure it out. Or start to figure it out. I’m sorry, I’m not making much sense,” she says, letting out a small laugh.

 

“So what I’m hearing,” he says quietly after they pull apart, pulling her in to a close hug, “Is that you’re willing to give this a shot.”

 

When she looks up at him his eyes are steady on her own and she can’t resist the urge to lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. He’s so tentative and gentle in response, hands leaving hers to rest on her hips again.

 

“That all you got?” she asks with a smile

 

“Well, no, but I don’t think anyone would be happy if I got us both arrested for indecent exposure our first night in the city.”

 

She’s laughing now and he’s wrapped both arms around her waist, and she can feel him smiling into her hair.

 

“Just worried about it on our first night, eh? Second night is fair game?”

 

“I make no promises.”

 

He’s being suggestive, and she likes it. She takes a step forward and backs him against the railing on the Charles Bridge and wrinkles her nose at him. There are still people milling about on the bridge, it’s not that late after all, but she’s suddenly beyond caring. All she can focus on is how badly she wants to kiss him, so she does.

 

They separate, moments later, both breathing hard and he rests his forehead against hers, “You play dirty, Balfe.”

 

“It’s the only way to play,” she retorts, all she can see from this position are his lips and she closes the short gap to kiss him again. Now that she’s allowed to she doesn’t think she can stop. She’s breathless when they come up for air again, panting against him with one hand locked behind his neck and the other fisted in his shirt.

 

She pulls back so she can look him in the eyes, she needs him to know that the time for joking has passed and she’s dead serious.

 

“How far is it back to the hotel?” he breathes, she can hear the joke in his voice.

 

“I think we should eat first,” she says with a wry smile. He quirks an eyebrow at her use of the word “first” before letting out a dramatic, long suffering sigh and then grins at her before taking her hand again and tugging her along.

 

“Then lets get on with it.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

To undress her quickly would be easy; one quick tug of the zipper and her dress would wisp down around curves and pool at her ankles in a dark sea of fabric. Instead he takes his time, it’s sick, really, how much he enjoys hearing the muted click of each tooth of the zipper parting from its mate, exposing a fraction of an inch of porcelain skin at a time.

 

He presses his lips to the nape of her neck and delights in the shudder that passes underneath his lips. Both of her hands are braced against the footboard of the bed, but she releases her death grip to reach back and wrap one hand around his hip, pulling him flush against her back.

 

The contact makes them both gasp. She arches into his touch as he slides one hand inside the opening her zipper has made, edging his hand along her waist to splay across her stomach, the light tickle of his fingertips making her squirm and push her head back against his shoulder.

 

With the zipper at its terminus, he slips one shoulder of the dress off to run down her arm, his lips moving from the back of her neck to ghost its movement before running the flat of his tongue across the flat of her shoulder and sinking his teeth lightly into the side of her neck. She gasps, moving her hand from his hip to twist restlessly in his hair, holding him against her neck. He smiles against her skin, laving the hurt with his tongue before pulling back, sliding his hand from inside her dress, reluctantly adding scant inches between them.

 

She makes a noise of discontent, hand groping behind her searching for contact. He snags her hand in his and uses it to tug her around to face him. Her eyes meet his, blue searching blue, and the corner of her mouth quirks as she shrugs her shoulder to send the dress, finally, to a puddle on the floor. He takes a step back to look at her, to take it all in and she can’t help but smile at him, eyes twinkling with what can only be a combination of devilishness and wanton desire. 

 

It takes only a step to close the distance between them, her hands going to the neck of his Henley, long fingers deftly slipping the buttons through their holes before sliding her palms down his chest to grab at the hem and tug it off over his head. His watch snags on the sleeve and he’s momentarily stuck inside his shirt. He fumbles with the sleeve, wrong-handed until she comes to the rescue, giggling quietly as she frees him and unfastens his watch in the process.

 

He grins and blushes, ducking his eyes as she steps out of the remnants of her dress and crosses the room to put his watch on the dresser. She turns to face him, leaning against the dresser and smiling shyly.

 

He huffs out a small laugh and holds out a hand to her, “I feel like we should be better at this.”

 

Taking his hand and allowing herself to be pulled into his embrace she smiles against his chest.

 

“At what? Taking each other’s clothes off?”

 

He’s at a loss to come up with some sort of witty rejoinder, so he does the next best thing and tilts her chin up with two fingers. She blinks, normally wide, bright eyes borderline sleepy with lust, lids and lashes fluttering as she stutters a sharp breath in. He moves to close the distance between his lips and hers and notices that she closes her eyes as soon as he starts to move toward her, lips parting slightly in anticipation.

 

He chuckles, and she tenses and begins to open her eyes again but he beats her to the punch, softly pressing his lips to hers in what is quite possibly the most chaste kiss they’ve ever shared.

 

Her hands, which had been linked very carefully behind his back, slide apart and begin a slow excursion upward, one tracing the contour of the muscles in his left arm, the other exploring the broad planes of his chest before coming to rest on either side of his face. His hold on her waist tightens and he pulls her to press more solidly against him and she emits a small gasp into his mouth, the small parting of her lips acting as invitation for him to delve deeper into the secret recesses of her mouth.

 

***

 

She’s going to suffocate. The piddling breath she’d taken before his lips had met hers had not been sufficient and now she’s going to suffocate – and she doesn’t care. All she cares about is the teasing flick of his tongue and the smooth slide hers makes against it as they dance back and forth between her mouth and his. Both of her hands are fisted in his hair at the nape of his neck and she’s not entirely sure how they got there, but she uses them to anchor him to her.

 

There’s not exactly a graceful way to remove clothing, and she doesn’t have the brain power or the wherewithal to actually bother with being subtle about her intentions as her hands drop to the buckle of his belt and fumble awkwardly to slide it free. She manages, though, without her lips leaving his once. As her fingers hook into the top of his jeans to work at the button his lips leave hers with a smack, both of them drawing in gasping breaths of the oxygen that is so important but long since forgotten by both.

 

She drops her eyes to her hands, now that she can see what she’s doing she should be making faster work with the button fly, but instead she’s still fumbling. It’s as if there’s a gap between her brain and her spinal cord, and nothing is working but the pleasure center of her brain. Her fingers feel numb, foreign, and are completely unwilling to work with her. She manages to free the first button, and with a grunt of frustration, foregoes the other three and slides her hand into his jeans to cup him through his boxers. He groans and nips at her neck, pushing his hips into her hands as he slides his hands up her sides and around to her back where he unsnaps her bra on the first, slightly fumbling, try.

 

With the release of the clasp, it’s like her brain remembers how to function and she makes quick work of the rest of his fly one handed while the other squeezes and teases him, slipping briefly inside the fly opening to brush lightly against the skin of his thigh before retreating and cupping him fully, weighing him in her hand.

 

He’s kissing his way along each shoulder and she’s startled when her bra falls into her frame of vision, inhibited in its journey to the floor by her questing hands. She, grudgingly, removes her hands from their explorations and lets the bra fall to the floor before hooking her fingers in his belt loops and tugging his jeans off over his hips. She watches the material bunch at his ankles and he uses his toes to pull them the rest of the way off his legs, brushing them aside with one foot. She wants to look up and meet his gaze, but she’s embarrassed. Why, she’s not exactly sure as she’s seen him in further states of undress before and he’s seen her in her altogether more than once.

 

But this is different. There’s expectation. They’re alone. It’s not simulated in front of a room full of people anymore. It’s just them, and there’s no backing out now even if she wanted to. Which she doesn’t.

 

“Hey,” he says, taking her hand in his and bringing it up to rest on his chest just above his heart, “It’s just me.”

 

She stares at their linked hands, feeling his heart beating erratically under her palm, and nods.

 

“It’s just me,” she echoes and raises her eyes to meet his. She tips forward to snare his lips with hers, their noses bumping in that awkward but endearing way that always happens when you’re still getting to know one another. They’ve done this so many times, but never for real. They’re playing for keeps this time. One of his big hands is splayed across her back and pulls them completely against each other. There is no space between them from toe to nose. She gasps at the sensation of his chest hair rasping against her nipples and shudders as he slides the hand that had been cupping her cheek to palm her breast, gently tracing the line of it with his thumb. She arches against him, his arousal plain and knifing between them as wetness pools between her thighs. She can’t take it anymore.

 

She pulls back, “Bed,” she says in an exhale of breath, managing to pull air back into her lungs before his lips are back on hers and she’s being propelled backward toward the bed.

 

***

 

Her legs hit the mattress with an audible thunk, and she sits, forcing him to bend almost in half to keep his lips on hers. He’s convinced it would take an act of God to make him separate from her at this point, but of course she has other ideas. Her hands quickly divest him of his boxers, pushing them down over his hips and toward the floor before her hand wraps around him lightly, stroking from root to tip while running her tongue along the inside of his upper lip.

 

He’s sure the neighbors heard him groan. This is better than anything he could have dreamed up.

 

He pitches forward, pinning her back onto the bed, lips trailing across her jaw and down her neck as his hands run down her sides. He traces the line of her collarbone with his tongue before pressing an open mouthed kiss to the top of each breast. She gasps, and arches against him, hands wrapped in his hair and holding his head to her breasts, alternating between gasps and breathy pleas as his lips and tongue memorize her.

 

He runs the flat of his tongue down the valley between her breasts, he feels her trying to guide him with her hands but he’ll be damned if he’s going to rush his explorations. He latches on to one nipple, hard against the chill of the bedroom and the arousal coursing through her and her breath exits her in one long sigh as her hands tighten in his hair. He brings one hand up to palm the breast his tongue is currently neglecting and uses the other to hook a finger into the elastic of her underwear and slide them down her thighs, using his knee to push them to her ankles.

 

She’s gotten a hand between them and is alternating slow, rhythmic strokes with gently cupping and squeezing his balls and if she doesn’t stop this is going to be over before it really starts. She releases him and rakes her nails up his thigh and he retaliates by closing his teeth on her nipple softly. She arcs underneath him, breathily gasping “Oh God” and “Yes” alternatively so he doubles down on his efforts making her entire torso arch off the bed and her head press back into the mattress.

 

On a normal occasion, he’s an equal opportunity worshiper of both breasts, but in this moment he can tell she wants more and he’s more than happy to give it to her. Her hips are bucking wildly against him and it’s almost more sensation than he can bear. He releases her with a muffled pop and runs the flat of his tongue up the slope of her breast before pushing himself up onto all fours and motioning for her to crawl fully onto the bed.

 

Her hands are pulling at his shoulders, inviting him so he slides up her body and rests almost full weight on her – nose to nose. He presses a kiss to the tip of her nose and watches the rich flush of her cheeks deepen.

 

“Hi,” she breathes. They’re so close that he’s breathing in her exhale. His hands frame her face, pushing wild bits of hair back behind her ears and tracing her cheekbones with his thumbs.

 

“Hi”, he whispers back.

 

***

 

She didn’t realize how much she had missed the weight of a man full atop her until this moment. She wants to tell him not to move, but she desperately wants him to at the same time. She edges one leg outward and he lifts slightly, allowing her to part her legs so he can rest in the valley between them. She presses her head upward to catch his lips in a searing kiss as she worms her hands between them. He gasps against her mouth as she strokes him lightly with just her fingertips of one hand and caresses his thigh with the other.

 

“You’re evil,” he whispers, his mouth so close to her ear that she shivers. Her grip on him tightens as he catches her earlobe in his teeth and closes down gently before tracing the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue.

 

“This is going to end so quickly if you don’t stop it,” he breathes, closing his lips on the curve of her neck and sucking lightly – not enough to mark her, but enough to make her hips rotate against his and her hand to pause in its ministrations.

 

“Make me,” she whispers, running her hands up his back to pull against his shoulder blades.

 

Sitting in the cradle of her thighs, he’s so close to where she wants him that it’s physically making her hurt. One slight adjustment from her and a tilt of her hips and he’d be sliding home, but his weight against her has her at his mercy. At her challenge he pulls back from her neck and cocks an eyebrow before pushing up on his elbows and sliding one hand down her sternum. He pauses to tweak one of her nipples, causing her to gasp, and lets his fingers dip teasingly into her belly button before cupping her fully with one large hand.

 

“Oh god,” he groans, forehead against hers. He pulls back further, rocking back on his knees and cupping her thighs with both hands. She allows her thighs to splay outwards, putting herself on display in a way that in the past might have given her pause but she’s beyond caring. She wraps her hands around the arm that is propped by her head, her fingers dig into the corded muscle of his forearm as he presses the heel of his hand against her and she arches violently as he slides two fingers inside her. He groans and his eyes slam shut along with hers. She pulls at his free arm, panting, begging, and her head thrashing against the white duvet causing a spill of dark curls to cascade around her head. She releases one hand from his arm and grabs the back of his neck, pulling his lips back in a crushing kiss, gasping and panting into his mouth. He swallows her moans with ease, slowly and torturously thrusting his fingers inside her, his thumb brushing lightly across her clit.

 

He’s going to kill her, “I’m going to die right here in this bed,” she thinks as she hitches one knee up and presses her hips against his questing hand begging for more.

 

***

She’s so wet it’s driving every single rational thought out of his head. All he can focus on is the slippery slide of his fingers and how her walls are pulsating with the beat of his heart.

 

He’s not sure he can take it anymore as she hitches both knees higher and wraps her mile long legs around his waist. He strokes her gently as he slides his fingers from her and she half sighs half groans, her body twitching as she exhales causing little hiccups in her noises.

 

He slides his torso back up hers and slides both arms under her shoulders to frame her face. He kisses her, slow and deep, as he slides the length of himself against her, groaning into her mouth at the feel of it. The tip of his cock bumps her clit and she all but explodes beneath him. He can tell she’s barely hanging on, and while he would love nothing more than to drive her over the edge a hundred times tonight, he can’t hold out anymore.

 

His eyes meet hers, and she nods so slight anyone else would have missed it. Her hand slips back between them and grasping him lightly guides him to her entrance before sliding back up his side and resting on his cheek. He pushes forward slowly, sinking slowly into her.

 

It’s good. It’s so good that all he can think about is how good it is. She’s panting in his ear and he presses his forehead against hers. All he can see in his field of vision are her eyes, pressed tightly shut with their long lashes spilling across her cheekbones, and all he can feel is her. She’s consuming him, swallowing him whole, and he cannot find it in himself to complain. He kisses her, softly and tenderly and over and over again once he’s buried completely inside her. This isn’t something he’s taking lightly, and he’s trying to pour that emotion out through a kiss because he doesn’t trust himself to form actual words that aren’t “I love you” and it’s too soon for that. She kisses him back, sipping at his lips, before opening her eyes and holding his gaze for what feels like an eternity.

 

***

 

She blinks and arches against him, “Please,” she pants and he moves, finally, ever so slowly retreating before pushing back home again. Her hands have a death grip on the duvet, twisting the fabric mercilessly between her fingers. She releases one hand and finds his by his face, twisting their fingers together as she hitches her knees higher, ankles resting at the small of his back. He speeds up infinitesimally before slowing down and driving solidly into her, ending each thrust with the slightest pulse of his hips. She’s meeting him thrust for thrust and snares his lips in a searing kiss only parting when the need for oxygen outweighs the need to keep kissing him.

It’s so good. She knew it would be good. She had been a fool to wait this long to prove it to herself. She brings her hands to cup the side of his face, tracing the line of his jaw with one and the swoop of his cheekbone with the other before lightly running her nails down his back and gripping his ass with both hands.

 

“Caitriona...please...show me...” he gasps into her mouth, words broken up by gasps and kisses.

 

“Harder,” she breathes, gripping his ass for all she’s worth as he redoubles his efforts. She slides one hand between them and he starts when he feels the slide of her fingers against him before groaning and burying his face in his shoulder.

 

“You’re going to kill me,” he pants, their sweat-slicked bodies slipping against one another, the only sounds in the room are their staccato breathing and the smack of skin on skin. It’s no longer gentle and tentative, she’s asking him for everything he’s got and he’s giving it to her.

 

She feels her thighs start to quake and the familiar tightening in her pelvis. She can feel him desperately trying to hold onto his composure and she arches to meet him harder, her fingers skating around her clit before they’re batted away and replaced with his. One brush of his fingers is all it takes and she comes apart in a million pieces.

 

She’s never been one to be particularly loud during sex, and this is no exception, the force of her orgasm slams her eyes shut and causes a tiny cry to be forced from her lips as she tightens and flutters around him. She feels him gasp into her shoulder, sinking his teeth into the muscle there as he loses his rhythm and pumps into her so hard that it lifts her hips off the mattress. His hips stammer out a few more thrusts before he groans and goes rigid above her, spilling deep inside her.

 

They breathe together for a few moments, feeling nothing but the languid, liquid, post coital feeling that cannot be duplicated in any other way. Then he’s wrapped both arms around her and turned them so she’s laying on top of him and he’s clutching her to him, kissing every inch of her face, down her throat, across her cheekbones, her closed eyelids, anywhere his lips can reach.

 

She’s desperately trying to regulate her breathing, one hand groping across the bedclothes to find his and link them together. She doesn’t want to move, she feels boneless, and stated in a way she hasn’t felt in a very long time.

 

 


End file.
